Brayden was used to two story falls, but he wondered about how his new body would take it...
His new body. Solitude let him confront the prospect at last. Everything about this seemed wrong, even if it felt normal. His brain told him he was tiny and clumsy, yet he moved without clumsiness. His habit told him he should be taking long confident steps, but he walked swiftly and tightly, as if used to restrictive skirts. He tried to take a wider posture, but it felt awkward to stand with his thighs so far apart. He realized he was standing on the balls of his feet, as if ready to leap one direction or the other at a moments notice.
He growled. He was trying to tear himself from introspection and refocus on escape, but his growl was a disconcertingly arousing sound to his ears. Still that did the trick and he was able to focus on the external once again. He looked out the window. He could see all the way to the road. In fact, he recognized the view. This was the old machine shop outside of town. It had been derelict since he was young, and was one of his first urban exploring spots he checked out in his early teens. Back then the parking lot was overgrown gravel, the brick walls were dingy and faded, and the inside was metallic cavernous and smelled musty, but what he saw now was a pristine black tarmac with fresh painted parking spots, finely edged limestone curbs, and an immaculate lawn with short straight grass that was clearly not native to the mountains of his home. He didn't even know P&R had purchased the property, much less made such extensive renovations. Out front was a sign that said "P&R clinic and reassignment bureau." in powdery blue lettering, reminiscent of some 50s Stepford Americana.
He glanced down at the frame. a few specs of dark mulch sat in the window frame from where that woman had picked up the pot, and dropped it. He swept the specs to the ground, and sighed in relief. But then... this turned his attention to the dirty linoleum tile floor. It was... distracting. He and shook his head, and looked back out the window. The grass looked soft enough outside his window, and while there was a brick and black iron fence around the building, it was purely cosmetic, It ended where it reached the edge of the property at the back of the building and the wild forest began. That was his escape. He just needed some shoes.
Shoes... He desperately needed shoes, but now just for his escape. His feet were covered in filth, as the thought dawned on him he blanched. How could he not have noticed? This. Was. Disgusting. He could feel the soil caked on his feet, and between his toes. He could feel sharp fragments of ceramic in his heel. He shook his head again. Why was this even bothering him? He'd wandered around outside barefoot plenty of time and it never bothered him before. Nevertheless it bothered him.
The pristine floor, pressing the filthy soil into his feet. His own pale immaculate skin, now stained, scratched, marred. He huffed his annoyance, and looked around the room.
Shoes and socks were by his bed... No... Shiny black Mary Janes and tan stockings. But there was NO WAY he was about to put his feet in any shoes or socks without cleaning them off first. There was a door opposite the bed. It was too large to be a closet, so he hoped it would be a bathroom. He started to walk, but then realized that he was tracking soil with every step and paused. Indecision gripped him. He needed to clean his feet, but he couldn't bear the thought of tracking dirt around. He thought about wiping his feet with his hands, but that posed the same problem. He was just SPREADING the filth.
"THIS IS STUPID" he shouted out loud. "I don't care about this." He insisted to himself. But he didn't move. He couldn't move. "I...I'll just clean it up after I track dirt around." He compromised. As if breaking some enchantment he was free once again.
The bathroom had a wide medical shower with a plastic seat, and a shower head that was attached by a long hose. Turning on a small flow of water, Brayden cleaned his feet slowly, deliberately, meticulously, until even the soles of his feet were as smooth and as pale as the rest of his milky white skin. He avoided looking at the mirror as he found a towel and dried his feet, then realized he was still barefoot on the filthy floor. Dancing around the tiny specks of dirt, he made it back to the bedroom, hopped on the tall bed, and stretched his fingers for the heels and stockings on the floor. The stockings went on, and up his legs, and the heels quickly followed. He hardly thought of the discomfort of the heels, so distracted by the relief they would give in keeping his feet from the filth. It was like slipping a glove on after being confronted with the prospect of reaching into wet dumpster.
He went to the window again. Aware of the dirt, but less concerned since it wasn't touching him. Could he make a jump like this? It wouldn't be hard with just a tuck and roll, but then he would end up with grass in his hair, stains on his clothes... He scowled deeply. "I'm going to do it." He told himself, setting one awkward heeled foot on the window sill. The dirt on the floor came into view, and jeered at him.
"OH Screw you." He said to the dirt.
Some soil had stuck to the bottom of his heels and was now being ground into the pristine white paint of the window sill.
"FINE!" He shouted to no one in particular. "Fine! Where's a broom?"
One floor above Brandi sitting in a luxurious office was the Director, delicately sipping a small cup of coffee. She had many monitors in her office. Monitors in bookshelves, monitors above a rolltop desk by one side, monitors in the windows, and three monitors on her desk, but one monitor in particular held her attention.
Front and center on her desk was a monitor of Brandi, huffing, puffing, and grumbling as she minced about the clinic room. She swept deliberately, and with a hurried frustration. She paused, looked to the window, then, after wiping the bottom of her heels, left the room by door instead of window.
The director took another sip of her coffee.
Moments later Brandi appeared on screen again, this time barging back in with a squeegee mop in tow, paper towels, various spray bottles, and an armful of bedding.
Brandi squeegeed the floor, then took the mop to the bathroom. When she came back into camera view, the sponge was as clean as if it were new. Next Brandi sprayed, and rubbed, the window sill. It was already quite clean, and even over the high resolution monitor feed the director could see no mark or sign of filth, but Brandi could, and so she rubbed, and sprayed, and rubbed and sprayed. She went on so long that the director considered lowering the compulsion settings on Brandi's implant, but at last Brandi stopped. Swiftly the maid stripped the linens from the bed, and replaced them with the fresh sheets and blankets. Brandi put her hands on her hips, and sighed visibly.
The Director glanced at a display to the right of the video feed, and noted that Brandi's endocrine system was being stimulated to feed her a nice glowing drip of feel good hormones. Good. Everything was working as intended. Dopamine to reward the behavior, Serotonin to remove bad mood and make her feel right when doing her job, and of course Oxytocin and estrogen to encourage... social bonding with her handler. It wouldn't be long until the computer interference would no longer be necessary. She delighted in giving the most wayward youth purpose. She wasn't supposed to play favorites, but there was always something special about fixing rebels. There was a certain thrill deep inside her at the thought of pruning recalcitrant neurons and domesticating their psyche. A pizza girl saying something she shouldn't? a father expressing sudden indignance at some minor aspect of his paradise? These things were boring, routine, easy to identify, and even easier to fix. But rebels? Rebels could always surprise you.
Her blood red lips curled into a sinister smile. She hoped he wouldn't give in too easily.
